Simple Things
by vairetwilight
Summary: The war between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort was far longer and bloodier than anybody expected. As Harry is slowly crushed under the pressure of directing a side of the war by himself, he finds solace in an unlikely person. HPMF. Not a MWAHA addition


This story is a response to a challenge by Slytherinmafia on her Yahoo Group. It is in no way related to the MWAHA series I co-write with Ariaeris.

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fiction using the characters of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. All recognisable characters belong to her. The quote this story is prompted by belongs to Winston Churchill.  
**Summary: **The war between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort was far longer and bloodier than anybody expected. As Harry is slowly crushed under the pressure of directing a side of the war by himself, he finds solace in an unlikely person.  
**Warning: **war themes and mentions of war crimes, male-male relationship (not graphic), cynical/depressed Harry  
**Pairing: **MFHP.

_All great things are simple, and many can be expressed in single words: Freedom, Justice, Honour, Duty, Mercy, Hope  
(Winston Churchill)_

Harry wasn't sure what it was about the statement that made it stick in his mind, but he was sure that despite everything else the man did wrong, in this, Winston Churchill, was right.

_Freedom_

Freedom was in the sky. To have nothing to hold you down, nothing but a magic twig to stop you from plummeting to a grizzly death. Flying was taking your life in both hands and then throwing it to the four winds.

The first time he saw him, really saw him, he was flying. It was the middle of the night and especially violent nightmares had plagued Harry. Harry had long ago established a post nightmare routine. Pulling himself from bed he headed out of the room still dressed in the same combat gear from three days before. Harry was far too used to it to care anymore, the war never waited for you to dress. Besides these days he slept too little to bother anyway.

Trapped in thoughts of blood, battle, and screams he walked his well worn path through the castle and out the doors. The cold night air dragged him back to reality as he headed towards the Quidditch pitch. Harry didn't fly for pleasure anymore. He couldn't even remember what it felt like to just fly. These days flying was all about battle, spying and assassinations. His duty was a chain that bound him to the earth. But when he was out on the pitch he could remember freedom, not the feel of it, but rather the knowledge that he didn't have to come down. The sky was his, and he was home.

On this particular night someone else was in the sky. As Harry watched the body above him weaving through the sky, hair flying behind him, body relaxed, he knew he would give anything to feel taht again. He had seen the man before, of course he had. They had played on opposing teams for years before Voldemort rose, they had since fought together in battles. Then he had been just another face, but this...this was something else. Marcus Flint was really, truly flying, in ways Harry remembered as if it had been someone else's life.

Marcus was flying, and flying was freedom.

_Justice_

Justice and revenge were inextricably linked in Harry's eyes. Justice for one could hardly be considered Justice by the one's on the opposing side. Justice for those killed by the dark. Justice for the squibs whose magic was stolen by the Mudbloods. It was all folly in the end. There was no justice in this world, only death and death and death. It was cynical. Incredibly so, but Harry refused to think that what they were doing was about Justice. It had stopped being justice so long ago. Revenge was far more important now. An eye for an eye. A man for a man. And if you could get the upper hand, then that was even better.

Harry remembered what it was like to fight for justice. Fighting to stop senseless death. He doesn't quite remember when it stopped being justice. Maybe he had simply become desensitised to it all. Today they got more of a response from the soldiers about the death of one of their own, than they did over the slaughter of an entire village. But such was war. They couldn't relate to these people any more. The army was your family and the masses were statistics.

Justice was executing a Death Eater who tortured Muggle children. Justice was handing Pettigrew over to the Dementor's Kiss. Harry liked to imagine Justice as an avenging angel come to mete out revenge for the victims who couldn't, who meted out revenge on both sides of the war. The last moment of Justice Harry remembered clearly was the day Marcus (it was always Marcus even if he didn't realise) came face to face with his father. It was as if the flames of Hades had taken possession of his body. He destroyed the man who tormented his mind, who had tortured him and his family, tortured innocents, who had killed the future Marcus could have had. As Marcus spat on his father's corpse Justice and revenge had stood together.

Marcus was an avenging angel, the angel was Justice.

_Honour_

Honour and Pride had a strange link. The Lion was the symbol for both. The Lion...the great Lion of Gryffindor the house of the brave and true. But the lion was a savage animal that preyed on the weak. It was jealous and controlling and possessive. The lion was proud. Pride was a weakness that would get you killed. It prevented you from seeing reality, the ultimate rose tinted glasses. It was nothing but an excuse for mistakes.

Harry watched Marcus a lot. He couldn't help it, not after seeing him fly that night. It was _always_ Marcus.

Harry had come to see the snake as something much more honourable then the lion. The snake didn't pretend to be anything but what they were. They weren't majestic or the King of the jungle. They were cunning and slippery and dangerous and everybody knew it.

As Marcus ducked yet another spell whilst sending his own back at his opponent, he was every bit a snake. Edging his body slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, he fought off several opponents before finally finding the perfect position. Marcus was cunning, dropping to the ground as all his enemies fired, killing many of their fellows with friendly fire. Marcus was slippery, sneaking through the group to pick them off one-by-one from behind during the confusion. Marcus was dangerous, as he fought for his life, his comrades lives, for everything he believed in. As the last of their opponents were taken down, Harry turned his eyes back to Marcus (always Marcus), soaked in sweat and blood he was majestic.

Marcus was a snake in lions skin, the snake was Honour.

_Duty_

Duty was a boulder that held Harry to the ground. He could not escape it. Duty was soldiers waiting for guidance and orders, civilians being evacuated, telling families they had lost yet another member. It was crushing and suffocating and Harry was being dragged into murky depths and he could not get out. Duty was leading the blind when you did not know the way. Harry knew duty; he knew it like he knew his own name, like he knew in the middle of the night when no one else was around exactly what their chances of winning this war was. But duty said he must go on.

Marcus had broad shoulders. It was a random thought that crossed Harry's mind one day whilst in a meeting planning for supplies. He was also strong, that Harry could see clearly. He could see it with every sweep of his wand during battle, with every decision he made for his unit that could, would, lead to the death of their members, he could feel it when Marcus' arms wrapped around him when they stood alone on the Quidditch pitch.

Duty was a boulder. Sometimes, in his more insane...no perhaps in his saner... moments, Harry could picture his duty as the world with himself wrapped around it attempting to hold it together through sheer will. In those moments he liked to picture Marcus as Atlas who holds the world up. Because sometimes duty became too much. Sometimes while Harry held the world together he needed someone to hold him, lest he break under the crushing pressure.

Marcus' shoulders were broad. Harry liked to think they could hold the boulder. That maybe Marcus could be strong for him when he had no more energy to give. With Marcus the boulder stopped sinking, the chain stopped pulling and for a while Harry was no longer drowning. He could breathe again.

Marcus was Atlas holding the world together, the world was Harry and his Duty.

_Mercy_

Mercy was killing your comrades because the only other option is too brutal to contemplate. Killing children because they were better dead that facing what was sneaking through the camps at night. Mercy wasn't always distinguishable from an act of war but sometimes...sometimes a person showed mercy in subtle ways. A common courtesy, an insignificant action could be more merciful than anything a person could ever face again in their life.

The battle had been particularly vicious. The refugee camp had been taken completely by surprise; they hadn't stood a chance against the swarming tide of blood and violence. No matter what he did Harry couldn't get the images, sounds and smells out of his head. He had finished the debriefing two hours ago and was now sitting in the bleaches of the abandoned Quidditch field watching as the sky gradually changed, storm clouds rolling in. The day would be as dark as the night had been. When Harry saw the weather like this he couldn't help but wonder if the planet was mourning like Magic did. Was it as disgusted by the atrocities committed by mankind as he was?

"Can't sleep?" Harry made no response for a few minutes. He wasn't surprised by the others presence. Nobody could surprise him anymore; he was in a constant state of awareness making sleep even more difficult.

"Magic weeps greatly tonight," the response was whispered. Harry hated talking about it, hated everything about it, never knowing if his emotions were his own or those belonging to Magic, using his body as a conduit.

"Here," a vial was handed to Harry, "Dreamless Sleep. I'll keep watch over you tonight."

Harry stared into Marcus' eyes before nodding and swallowing the contents of the vial where he sat. There was no point returning to the castle to search for a room, it was probably safer outside anyway. It was an insignificant action on Marcus' behalf, but a night without dreams and terrors, with someone keeping watch was a mercy Harry had not expected.

Marcus brought Dreamless Sleep, to sleep without dreams and screams was Mercy.

_Hope_

People really didn't understand, but Harry didn't really care. They didn't think what he thought, they didn't live what he lived, feel what he felt, they didn't _know_. They didn't know Freedom or Justice or Honour or Duty or Mercy. They didn't know Marcus. They didn't know and because of this they couldn't understand.

Harry was a bird with clipped wings. Who dreamt of flight but lived in pain.

Marcus was the flight of freedom, the angel of justice, the snake of honour. He was the glue holding Harry together against the onslaught of duty. He was mercy in the times when Harry felt there was nothing left.

Harry loved Marcus. It was as simple as it was inexplicable. Marcus was everything that Harry could remember but couldn't quite remember _feeling. _Every time that Harry went out to another battle, another raid, and another clean up of a massacre. Every time he gave orders he knew may very well be his last. Every. Single. Time. Harry would take one long look at Marcus and he would know he would try to come back.

Harry may not have the freedom of flight anymore. He may not remember the difference between justice and revenge. The lion may no longer be honourable. Duty may be drowning him. Mercy may be a fleeting concept. None of that mattered anymore, because since that night Marcus had taken their place.

All great things are simple. Their love for each other was simple in their eyes. There were no complications.

Harry was the hope of the world.

But for Harry, Marcus was Freedom, Justice, Honour, Duty, Mercy. Most importantly though, for Harry:

Marcus was hope.


End file.
